La Vengeance est le Mieux Servi avec du Vin
by catfishii
Summary: Excuse my terrible French. A Poe Parody for Nims Dias-Angelovdarkness' Black Widow Challenge. Nothing explicit. They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. I think it's even better with wine. And all men have their flaws...


**A/N: This is for Nims. Thank you for the excellent plot bunny, which I nurtured until it grew up into a manageable oneshot. It turned out much different from what I had expected and perhaps it doesn't follow what you had in mind, but I like it :)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own the scenario, or the characters, nor do I own most of the plot. **

**Warning: If you are looking for humor, I suggest you go look for another one-shot. This is about as far from crack as Calculus is easy.**

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La Vengeance est le Mieux Servi avec du Vin

Syaoran. What an interesting name. The name of the man who had wronged me. He is but a man, though, and men have their flaws.

It was at night I made my move, on the eve of my birthday. He had hugged me with much warmth, imbibed by wines and spirits. The man wore women's clothing. How Fai-san had managed to do that, I don't know. He wore a bonnet trimmed with much lace and ribbons and his dress was of Lolita fashion. I wrung his hand, barely restraining from kissing his smooth cheek, delighted in his condition.

Said I: "My darling Syaoran! How wonderful to have met you at this hour! I in fact was just about to go to begin my purification ritual! But, I am frightened dreadfully of the creatures that lurk there…"

"Hime?"

"So scary…"

"Sakura!"

"Will you protect me?"

"Sakura-hime!"

"…But I can see that you are busy. Perhaps I will ask Kurogane-san. He will protect me—"

"Kurogane?" he sniffed contemptuously. "Kurogane couldn't save his own skin, much less you! Come, let us go!"

"What?"

"To the caves!"

"My friend, no. I dare not impose if you are busy; I can always go to Kuro—"

"I have no engagements."

I twitched at the word 'engagement'. Obviously, this man was a bit _too _inebriated. "My dear, no. This is not an engagement, but with the severe cold I perceive you to have, I doubt that the caverns would be very good for you at this time of night, as you know, for the desert gets quite chilly. Perhaps I should get Kurog—"

"Let us go!" he cried, "The cold is nothing! As for him, Kurogane cannot tell the difference between purification and drowning!"

That said he possessed my arm in a Fai-like way. Putting on a mask and a cloak, I allowed myself to be led away to my palace.

There were no servants home—I had let them go for the day, which explicit orders not to return until the morrow. Neither my brother nor his lover were to be seen anywhere as well. Good, good, good. I took two lanterns from their hooks and led Syaoran through a maze of suites and rooms. I ghosted down a long, gently sloping corridor, biding Syaoran to be silent. At length, we reached the damp ground of the cavern of purifying waters of the Kinomotos.

"Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!—Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!" He could not stop coughing for several minutes, and when he did, his voice was hoarse.

"How much farther?"

"My dear, you need a drop to lessen the harshness of your throat and to ward off the chills!" I pulled out a bottle of sake and two mugs from my cloak.

"Yes, please. Hoch!"

I poured two mugs, filling one to the brim. I gave that one to the poor man, and he downed it like a parched desert traveler. I merely sipped at my mostly-empty mug, already feeling a bit light.

We continued on, him leaning heavily on my arm, intoxicated once more by the sake. The damp chilliness continued to increase and I stopped us once more.

"Please, we should go back. Your health matters more than some silly ritual!"

"Hoch! No, no—I'll be fine. Just let me have a little bit more of that sake."

I pulled out the bottle of sake. The bottle was from Kurogane's private store—the one I had taken was named "Anata wa Shinu." Syaoran took it, and with a short "to life", downed the contents of the entire bottle.

He tossed the bottle aside and we continued on. Leaning drunkenly on my arm, he asked,

"Are you of the sisterhood?"

"Of what?"

"The Black Widows?"

"Yes, yes," answered I. "Yes, yes."

"No! You? A femme fatale?"

"Yes, yes," I replied. He giggled drunkenly and patted my cheek.

"That's my girl!" he cheered. I smiled wanly back at him.

We walked on in silence, which was only broken by the sound of hissing sound of rushing, dripping water. We walked on in silence, loose rocks crunching beneath our feet. We walked on until we reached our destination, which was little more than a deep crevice in the wall.

"Eh?" His stupor was wearing off, I could tell. "This isn't th—Oof!"

Quick as the desert snake, I plunged the dagger which I had hidden within the folds of the cloak into his back and pushed him in, relinquishing my hold on the handle.

He lay there coughing, taken off guard, incapacitated. I took a trowel out of the folds of my cloak, and from behind a rock, drew out a large quantity of mortar and stone.

With the light of the lantern, I began the task of building a wall.

"Ha! Ha ha! Sakura, I love the joke you've played!" his giggles echoed weakly. "He! He!"

I smiled tightly, and began the second layer while his giggles rang around the little niche. Soon, though, his giggles petered away.

A third layer went up, and he started to scream. His intoxication had worn off. His surprise had worn off. His pain was setting in. His shock was setting in.

A fourth, fifth and sixth layer went up, and all the while, pained shrieks and petrified moans floated out of the little crevice I left.

A seventh layer went up, and he fell silent.

An eighth layer went up, and I called out, "Syaoran?" No reply.

Ninth layer. "Syaoran?" Silence.

Tenth layer. "Syaoran?" Nothing.

Eleventh layer. "Syaoran?" I paused and peered into the darkness. In a moment of spontaneity, I threw a lantern in. For a moment, the light lit up the terrified eyes of a stone cold, sober man.

Then, it smashed against his face.

Twelfth layer went up and the shrieks started again. Shrieks of pain. Of horror. Of death-in-the-making.

Thirteenth layer finished, and I was out of mortar. "Syaoran?" I called, one last time.

No answer.

I sat down and contemplated what I had just done. After all, _nemo me impune lacessit. _Perhaps I could get Fai-san to make me a cake for my birthday. Maybe white, with red feather designs all around the edges.

Somewhere, a clock struck three.

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A/N: I've always wanted to do another Parody. And now it's finished. It just occurred to me that I have no idea what Syaoran's like when he's drunk.

_**In pace requiescat! **_


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